


cut to the chase

by fervent



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2519456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fervent/pseuds/fervent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>it’s not love. it’s not noble or romantic. it’s power and control.   </i> </p><p> </p><p>A secret society AU set at an unnamed university on the east coast, ft. one trust fund baby Harry Styles and one Zayn Malik, going places</p>
            </blockquote>





	cut to the chase

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cybergay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cybergay/gifts).



> acknowledgments as always to a / tidings and joy to ovo sound  
> hope you like, princesshaz ✌

Zayn would be lying to even try to say that he doesn’t know where it started; it was in the coatroom at the Jefferson last winter, it was catching Harry’s eye an hour before that. It was walking into the room and watching his hand carry his drink to his mouth, slipping his other into his pocket at the same time, completely oblivious to Zayn and to the door closing behind him. Could probably argue it was even earlier, sometime in prep school, the rumors that waltzed around everywhere Harry wasn’t, two New England states away. _Heard Harry Styles just sold his penthouse, heard his last party was actually literally just an orgy, heard Harry Styles will never say no._

Sure, time had turned that vague curiosity into something tangible, a kiss shoving him into a row of fur coats, a plan, a future, but the start of it was always a little out of Zayn’s hands.

 

-

 

Harry has gotten used to this; forced awake at eight on the dot with a knock and a, "Call at nine with Edward, H," from Liam through his door. A second time at half past, then physically pulled out of bed and toward the bathroom attached to his room a few minutes later, Liam calmly sending whoever happens to be sharing his bed that night home so Harry doesn't have to deal with anything more than the blinding sun and promise of a lecture for the next two hours. If his bed actually happens to be empty like today, Liam goes straight into his closet for whatever clothes he's going to shove at Harry when he comes back out. They're not exactly friends since Liam is on the payroll but Harry trusts him more than anyone else in the world, and he knows better than to crawl back into bed by now. 

He's not usually quite this level of hungover either, so it's ten til by the time Liam realizes things aren't going well and forces his way into the bathroom and picks him up off the floor. Harry keeps his eyes closed and lets Liam lean him against the granite counter worth more than something, whatever, it's too expensive, lifts his arms to get his shirt off and slips them into a button-up, "Button. Let me get your belt." He's back before Harry has managed more than the middle three and it's only as he shoos his hands away that he realizes he's done them wrong, matched to the wrong holes. His head hurts and his eyes hurt and he remembers something about puking when he got in this morning but he could swear he needs to again. Liam lifts his shirt to start it around his waist and Harry rests his hands on the counter just a second before Liam is dragging him to the dining room and handing him a cup of coffee. His phone rings all too soon. 

It’s all a bit of a blur, something about the reputation he’s built for himself up to this point and the future he should be working toward, that it’s time now to _make decisions and get serious about the man you’re going to be,_ the same shit lecture he’s been getting for years now. Fortunately Edward is en route to a board meeting and doesn’t have time to expand much beyond that, says goodbye with a perfectly subtle mention that he shouldn’t need reminding to get his hair cut at age twenty. He goes to class without washing it just to spite him from a couple hundred miles away.

 

-

 

Zayn’s headed home from the newspaper late, too late for this time in the semester, really, when his phone buzzes in his pocket, switches hands from his coffee and the screen is glowing _Harry Styles_ at him. His chest kind of narrows in but he’s rolling his eyes, can’t make up his mind the next two rings and then swipes over to answer after all and is greeted with, “Wow, that hesitation was pretty unflattering.” Two thoughts happen simultaneously, then, something about how Harry could know he hesitated to answer which prompts a quick look around, he never pays attention walking home, he could be anywhere, and a lagging _how does he manage to speak so_ slow _all the time_ ; ultimately he’s still distracted enough to answer without thinking, “Well I answered, didn’t I?” and Harry laughs into his ear, sounds surprised through it so that Zayn can’t help kind of smiling.

“Have you got plans for the rest of the night?”  


Zayn knows this move, the cut to the chase, knows Harry wouldn’t be asking without prior calculation, thinks he’s inviting him in a way he can’t say no to. Remembers having to learn that strategy, perfecting it.   


“Yeah, I do. I’ve got a meeting at ten.”   


Harry pauses then, Zayn can practically hear him thinking _that late, who_ but waits it out,   
“And after that?” louder in the air than from the speaker at his ear.

He turns around and Harry’s standing there, right behind him, phone in hand and wearing one of his thousand pound Saint Laurent coats, perfectly tailored probably just last week. Zayn ends the call and places his phone in his pocket. Shrugs because he can, takes his time with answering. Can feel Harry’s discomfort, however deep he’s hiding it, at showing up and asking the questions,   


“Dunno, could be morning by then,” and loves that he can watch Harry not understand, think Zayn’s hinting at something besides it being a Thursday and really he just wants Harry to ask a little farther.  


He doesn’t, of course. Mouth just turns a smile and his eyes go that charming side of soft he’s known for, tilts his head slightly to the side.  


“Well, have a good night then.”  


Zayn nods, “You too, Harry, see you around,” and puts his earbud back in as they part ways.

He’ll end up over there anyway, which they both know, but at the very least wishing him a good night is polite considering they’re practically strangers outside of small spaces out of sight. The middle of campus is the last place for any kind of _see you at sunrise if it comes to that_.

 

-

 

A small sign on the inside of a shelf saying _Versus, est. 1956_ is the only indicator that their headquarters exist past the last row of shelves in the law and jurisdiction section on the seventh floor of the library. Seven founders to carry on through seven members of the society every year, Versus meaning _having been turned,_ secret in membership and in activities but not in donations or service. Versus carries its weight in anonymity, the way the most elite understand and choose to operate. The oath every initiate takes in May before their final year at the school honors the direction they’ve turned toward to even be invited and promises the path they accept within Versus, of loyalty, the betterment of the lives of its members, and above all, kinship. They meet twice a week every week of the semester; traditionally the first night to debate topical issues, discuss current events, or have dinner with men of import or alumni members and the second to socialize among themselves, which Zayn trusts has stood in the same spirit if not the same activities for the past fifty years. 

As is standard on Thursdays Louis is already waiting with Punch and Elvis, _Ready to Die_ on the stereo and the three of them crowded around the coffee table watching Louis roll the last of three blunts. They split three between six of them after learning the hard way during the first fire drill of the year last September, always someone that needs to be in charge of representing them without any suspicion whatsoever. Penalties aren’t exactly expected for anyone in Versus, but they’ve got a few athletes that couldn’t get away with it if someone wanted to randomly test without even the slightest need to a reason. Tonight he and Louis and Punch and Elvis and Sleet are on, Duke’s off, they’ve got a pile of junk food and if he remembers right it was Punch’s turn to supply so they’re pretty much set.

 

-

 

He can tell Louis is leading up to it with the glance he gives him looking away from the TV, the look in his eyes as he asks “How’s Bambi?” his trademark curiosity mixed with mischief.  


“You know, from the way you ask about him I’ve half a mind to think you wanna be the one to recruit him, Tommo.” Should really know better by now because no one can comeback the way Louis can, “Oh, ‘s recruiting what you’re calling it now?”   


Zayn laughs, goddamnit, “Hate you,” flops back farther onto the couch and kicks his shoes off. They’ve watched _The Dark Knight_ through at least four times this year. “He’s fine. Just as stubborn as you are, apparently,”   


“See, what would you do without me. Giving you good experience all these years,”

“Oh, is that what you’re calling it now?” and Louis grins, “Yeah. Yeah I am.” 

 

-

 

It’s late by the time they wander out of the library, midnight somewhere in the middle of a car chase. Texts Harry _here_ and catches the clock on his phone change from 1:58 to 1:59 just as he hears the click of the lock opening and it’s not the first time he’s been here but it’s the first time he’s doing it this sober. The adrenaline alone would always have been enough but Zayn’s always done things better when he has a goal to work toward and months of it mean he’s in his prime, can’t lose at this point. Doesn’t need anything else to get there but time.

Harry’s only wearing gym shorts and black trouser socks when he meets him at the bottom of the stairs in the entry and Zayn’s already untied his scarf but Harry takes his coat and hangs it on the coatrack on his way to the kitchen, asks quiet, “You want something to eat? Or drink?” Ever the perfect host. “Mmm, I’d take a drink, yeah,” as he opens the fridge, watches his eyes catch on a carton of orange juice in the door. He pauses and it feels like deja vu, the kind of moment he’s used to expecting from Louis, any time of day, the most important thing he’s learned in college. “How’s a mimosa sound?” Zayn stares at him a moment just so he knows he’s not fucking falling for this shit then answers, “Great, sure,” and Harry grins. Like he didn’t even notice.

They linger in the kitchen, the counter of the island digging into the small of Zayn’s back, Harry leaning against the fridge. Knows the cold of it against the bare skin of his shoulders better than he’d ever admit aloud. “How was your meeting?” Keeps eye contact over his glass, takes just a taste of his drink. Zayn has to consciously remind himself he’s not falling for this shit as he swallows, “It was good. Very productive, got a lot done.” Harry nods, then, that studied balance of appearing interested but conveying completely that he’s only asking to be courteous. Zayn wants to laugh so he does, watches Harry’s smile grow and drinks half his mimosa in one go. The carbonation is still burning at his throat when Harry asks, “So you’re in a secret society, right?” He smiles again. “Ten bonus points for that,” pauses still smiling, wants Harry to get to feel proud of himself, “Yeah, I am.” “And you’re courting me for it, aren’t you,” practically smirking. “Mmm, might be.” Harry’s smile doesn’t shift but his eyes do, kind of glint in the light as he sets his glass down. “So let’s get to that, yeah?”

It hadn’t happened the first few times, or maybe it had and Zayn hadn’t noticed, hadn’t been able to hear over whatever song was coming through the walls of whatever backroom they’d  managed to find. In New York they hadn’t had time or interest to get anywhere past quick fuck in whatever backroom for the third time in a month, but in private it was something slightly off to the side, more space in it to learn the difference between quick and just right. Now it happens every time, Zayn seeks it out, drags it from Harry like it’s more important than him coming. Maybe it is. Has learned it’s not something he can predict or get any pattern out of; sometimes Harry’s practically already there, only takes a deep kiss and his hands on his ribcage to feel him trembling, something uncontrolled like adrenaline, or fear, waiting just beneath his skin to get gone. Others it’s sometime along the way, hands tight around Zayn’s shoulders like he can’t quite hold tight enough, or as he comes and shudders through it, that long moment bleeding into another where Harry’s still shuddering and Zayn isn’t watching but he still seeks it out.  

Tonight Harry has that tart but sweet taste of champagne and oranges and champagne drunk reminds Zayn of New Year’s Eve, the rooftop party they’d gone to separately and left separately and spent every minute between and after seeing who could get away with more and better. Harry’d said something about feeling the bubbles in his elbows in the car after and Zayn pulls that into bed with them, shifts over and fits his hands to the crease of his arms there, the small _A_ tattooed right beneath on the one side that he can cover up completely if he angles his thumb right. He grinds down over top of him still thinking about the hotel they’d gone back to, one of the Styles’ many penthouses in one of the many buildings they owned, Harry insisting every light the staff had left on for their arrival be turned off and the curtains all opened instead. He’s the kind of romantic that Zayn can roll his eyes at even as he’s chasing the taste of an early morning mimosa. Just wants Harry to put that charm to use, is all, bring it to power. When Zayn presses down again he scrapes his thumbnail down and along his radius, ends at his wrist and there it is, can hear the shake in Harry’s exhale of his name. It’s never easy to get there but once he does he fights like hell to hold onto it, wants to hear it again and again over and over. As if one of these times Harry could just lose it completely.

 

-

 

Harry wakes up with a sour mouth and to an empty bed, the sound of Liam’s shower running across the hall. Zayn never stays much past their standard post-orgasm cigarette but it’s still strange for him, to never have to face the whole _can I stay/ you should leave_ ordeal. He pulls his blanket back up to his chin as he turns onto his side, other hand falling loose to the _might as well_ at his hip, thinks idly of Zayn’s _don’t think I won’t_. Closes his eyes against the sun slipping through the window, doesn’t get any farther before he’s back asleep.

 

-

 

Zayn doesn’t tend to go to parties, especially those hosted by a junior with strings he has no interest in pulling, but Niall Horan has always been a bit of a soft spot for him, plus it’s the end of his final year and there’s nothing Louis loves more than a sure place to be the center of attention, so he sends his RSVP along with a bottle of Niall’s favorite whiskey and a request for the guest list. When he gets it twenty minutes later he’s not surprised to see Harry’s name missing, half because he doesn’t think Harry _would_ RSVP and half because he doesn’t think he’d need to; Liam Payne is there right beneath his own and that’s enough. Either he’ll be there with him or he won’t. Zayn will have a good time regardless.

Spring is always slow going in New England; especially without the activity of New York, campus feels like dead weight as soon as the semester gets going and winter drags its feet letting the seasons change. Zayn’s been covering a bunch of extra stories since one of their best underclassmen staff writers is off in Rome doing study abroad and they haven’t managed to find anyone of caliber to replace her. So he’s written a few pieces about shit he didn’t want to delegate to people actually doing work they’re interested in before they graduate; been to a performance of a bunch of one act plays, interviewed the admissions director, gotten lunch with the track coach. He’d gotten the editorship by doing the work better than everyone else, respecting the work and speaking for himself in a way that demanded it right back. Figures his last semester is the time for good editing anyway, and he’s still writing the stories no one else can write, so it’s fine. 

He slips in a quick line at the end of his coverage of the last track meet of the season about the seniors of the track team finishing strong, ending their careers with a solid future ahead of them whatever they chooses to do with it or whatever bullshit, thinking of Harry the whole time but not mentioning him by name, then sends it to layout for proofreading, works on getting through the drafts he’s gotten in for next issue. He’s late to the meeting but Thursdays are always when he gets too absorbed in his work, the office quiet without the impending deadline of the night before. It’s not the first time and it surely won’t be the last.

 

-

 

Harry’s leaving his only Friday class when he passes by a stack of freshly printed _Daily Heralds_ , catches a headline about the meet last weekend with Zayn’s name in the byline and grabs one. Walks home reading it, the last line like Zayn yanking him by the collar of his shirt, quiet in a way that only he could manage. Harry isn’t oblivious to the point of not knowing this has all been a process Zayn intentionally pulled him into, but he isn’t the least bit put off by it either. He’s always had people trying to get what they want from him and no one’s made a better act of it than Zayn has; he relates to him in a distant way, this back of his head possibility that he could _be_ that if he wanted to, if he’d commit to it. The potential is what Harry thrives on, his modus operandi: get what you want by offering more than you’d ever give, and Zayn is a hell of a lot more precise about it, takes his time but doesn’t waste a moment. He feels young around him sometimes, like while he was in Tokyo or Paris or LA last year Zayn was laying some invisible foundation for something bigger than Harry’d considered possible. He’s not sure he wants to play catch up but the idea of playing in the same arena is tempting, if he’s honest. It reminds him of his father, the way he’s spoken of university as the most important time of his life. Hates thinking about becoming him in any form but it’s as if Zayn’s presenting this alternate version, fighting for the Saint Laurent with your hair tied behind your head and a special occasion kind of smile. 

He texts him as soon as he’s inside, starts lunch and leaves it at _You wrote about me._ Zayn is punctual at just about everything but texting, he’s learned, but he gets a reply right away. _Your coach had a lot to say_ and Harry’s so used to this kind of conversation he could speak it in his sleep, yeah yeah whatever something about plans for the weekend, _Of course he did._ Flips his grilled cheese over and it’s hardly past toasted. Niall’s having that party tonight he promised he’d go to but he wants to take a nap first, promised Liam he’d iron his shirt for him. Still two papers to finish before Tuesday and his only actual final exam on Wednesday, not to mention a flight home in the morning for two separate meetings with a developer and their financial advisor and a family luncheon to celebrate his sister’s masters before they all jet off wherever this summer. Back Monday for the last stretch of school before spending at minimum two full weeks in New York without anything resembling a schedule. 

 

-

 

Zayn knows he’s thinking about it when he shifts his glass from one hand to the other. Can feel him out of the corner of his eye, not watching but completely aware, drink empty for at least ten minutes, swirling a few melting ice cubes around the bottom. Niall’s place is crowded, just at the crest of too many people for it to stay this good, can feel his time to go approaching when he catches Louis across the room laughing that drunk laugh he has where he covers his whole face with his hands. So that when Zayn excuses himself with the pretense of a refill and turns his head just so, Harry’s instinctively turning his head in the opposite direction. It all falls into place;

he walks right past the kitchen, pulls his coat on and the cold air of New England autumn is on his neck in half a minute, hand in his pocket for his lighter. Catches the sound of someone else’s footsteps behind him two blocks down, inhales one last full drag before turning into an alley and doesn’t even have to wait; the bricks against his body and Harry’s mouth with no further preamble, not so much as a word. They don’t talk, they never talk, but the way Harry can never manage to completely hide the want in his inhale is enough. And it’s not that Zayn has him where he wants him, or that he wants to do anything more than let some loose cannon that doesn’t know what he’s capable of press against him in a dark alley. Yeah it works out pretty well for him besides the fact of getting Harry where he wants him, but the control Zayn has here, right in this moment, has never been for the present. It’s for the Harry Styles that turns thirty a decade from now and second nature, no hesitation whatsoever, considers Zayn Malik an equal. Not concerned with being his friend, not concerned with being the best fuck he’s had thus far, but with being on a separate list completely, known with another name and another place and time. Not this alley or that rooftop or one or the other’s bedroom, but with a hallway in the back of a library, and after that, wherever. Everywhere.

 

-

 

Zayn’s buttoning his shirt when he finally gets around to saying anything, keeps his tone low so it’s clear he’s not talking about the two of them. “You should keep Thursday night free this week.” Harry’s still in bed, head propped up on his elbow looking like he’s unconvinced. “You gonna kidnap me in the middle of the night? Tie me to the flagpole?” Zayn rolls his eyes. “Versus isn’t a fucking fraternity, come on.” Harry lies back down, closes his eyes. “Maybe, but it is the bullshit kind of thing my parents would have done. Did do. I don’t fucking care.”   
Zayn tugs his other boot on without even bothering to sigh. The _and I don’t know why you’re even trying_ is still a little strongly implied for his liking but he’ll be damned if a pouty Harry Styles is enough to throw him off now. “You know this is different than the societies your parents ran around in, Harry.” He gets absolutely no reaction this time, remembers Louis over the summer, joint in hand and sprawled across the couch in the Vault making a list of mottos that would suit them better than the Latin they’d had for fifty some years. Ultimately had landed on _Ever stoned_ in some kind of haphazard circle from _Ever forward_ but Harry has no right to that information, regardless of how well Zayn knows he’d fit in with the new and improved social activities of the society.

“You only want me there because you know how powerful I am.” 

Harry sounds bored by the whole thing, and not in the kind of testing way he does that Zayn can spot from a mile away. Like he actually believes it, that he dared to imagine himself that important once and now it’s stuck. But then again that attitude is the whole reason he’s here, isn’t it. He smiles. The great thing about interacting with pretentious asshole kids his whole life is that he’s spent a majority of that time biting his tongue and biding his time. Moments like this, an opportunity to breeze his way through getting what he wants with a perfectly placed reply, makes it all worth it.  


“No, Harry,” he turns his body to the door but doesn’t break eye contact.  “You don’t have power yet. You have potential.”

He leaves then, slips through the door of his room and hears the door close on its hinges from halfway down the hall. 

 

-

 

He doesn’t see Harry the rest of the weekend or days following; meetings go as planned and they make an actual effort to clean out the Vault, leave it the way they found it, or better, ideally, but no one is really willing to go back to how the couches were set up before they added the Nintendo with actual cables for the controllers. Everything gets shoved out of the way anyway to make room for the oath ceremony, chairs from storage delivered at the same time as the invitations to their initiates in the earliest hours of Thursday morning. Zayn’s not nervous, really, just anxious to get through it. Feels like more of an accomplishment to finish this than their graduation ceremony in a few days, if they can pass this on it means bigger things than an empty leather folder and a diploma in the mail a couple months from now.

All seven respond by noon, the Vault already turned into the memory Zayn has of this time last year, excited, pride light in his chest. It’s still light out when they walk out that evening to escort them in and Harry’s staring at Zayn so hard he can feel it in his skull, his jaw clenched but half a smile twisted on his lips. He bows his head just a touch and Louis elbows his side from next to him, whispers, “Good work, Z,” and Zayn’s still looking at Harry as he replies.

“Told you so.”

 


End file.
